Chapter IX: Part 9

At the last, the three who watched him saw him push the paper from him, lock his hands in front of him and stare at McKenna. The correct, insolent man of the world had faded; instead, before them, bare to the bone, was the rascal, the desperate, clever adventurer. Suddenly making a quick resolve, he said in a tone that surprised them for its absence of emotion:

"Give me the paper I'm to sign."

McKenna jumped up and going to a shelf took down an affidavit.

"It is always a pleasure to deal with profession," he said genially, placing the document on the table. "Oh, read it first."

Garraboy skimmed through it hastily, nodding. He took up his pen and paused.

"It's understood that the contents will never be made public, directly or indirectly, so long as I keep out of the United States?"

"Understood."

"Your word of honor on it as a gentleman, McKenna?"

"My word."

"And yours, too, Mr. Beecher, Mr. Gunther?"

Each repeated the promise in turn.

Garraboy signed the confession and handed it to McKenna.

"What now?"

"You will, of course, wind up your business immediately."

"I will telephone for my clerk to bring my books here at once for your inspection. I will draw the necessary checks and have them deposited to the credit of my clients this afternoon. One of your men can personally assure himself that everything is right. Will that satisfy you?"

"Couldn't have proposed anything more practical," said McKenna, nodding.

"What next?"

"Clean up that matter of the ring."

Garraboy rose impatiently,

"I haven't got the ring."

"I don't believe you."

"Are you going to keep me under surveillance?"

"I am."

"Until when?"

"Until the ring is returned."

"McKenna," said Garraboy desperately, "I think I've satisfied you. I'm not standing on technicalities. You've got me cold. I know it. Now, I'll tell you just how I stand. When everything is paid up, I stand pretty nearly $200,000 to the good. I'm going to get out--go abroad and stay there, and I want to catch the first boat out. If I had that ring, I'd throw it over, quick. That's straight goods."

"Garraboy, did you steal that ring?" said McKenna again.

"I did not." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the perspiration which stood on his forehead.

"Did you ever see before the detective, John Ryan, whom Mrs. Kildair called in?"

Garraboy hesitated.

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"Employed him?"

"Yes."

"Many times?"

"Several."

"And you recommended him to Mrs. Kildair?"

"Yes."

"So you knew whom she would call in?"

"No, I didn't think of that."

"Garraboy, didn't you take the ring knowing that Ryan would be called in and that he would never make a search of you?"

"I did not."

"Do you know who took it?"

"No."

"That's sufficient," said McKenna, apparently satisfied.

"What are you going to do?" asked Garraboy nervously.

"Keep you on a rope until the ring turns up.

"I want to get away," said Garraboy weakly.

"I know that."

The broker remained quiet a moment, turning a pencil with his moist fingers.

"Will you answer one question?" he said at last.

"What?"

"Does Mrs. Kildair know--are you acting for her?"

"Mrs. Kildair does not know what I'm doing," said McKenna quietly.

Garraboy rose with what seemed a little relief, a movement that McKenna was quick to note.

"Well, I've made up my mind to tell you what I know," he said, after a few nervous steps.

"Good."

"I haven't got the ring," he said carefully.

"Did you take it?"

"I did not take it," said Garraboy, looking steadily in McKenna's eyes.

"But you know?"

"Yes, in a way I know," he said firmly. "A woman took it."

"How do you know?"

Garraboy did not answer immediately. He seemed reluctant to continue, frowning and moving restlessly from foot to foot. Finally he blurted out:

"I don't know who took it first, but this is what happened--the God's truth. When Mrs. Kildair put out the lights and counted sixty-one, I heard the ring on the table." He hesitated a moment and said hurriedly: "I made up my mind to give them all a shock. I did not intend to keep the ring; I swear it. I put out my hand to take it--and I touched another hand--the hand of a woman."

"Who took it?"

"Yes."

"Was that woman Mrs. Cheever, or Miss Lille?" said McKenna quickly.

"I don't know."

"You don't know."

"No."

"You have no idea?"

"No."

"No suspicion?"

"No."

"You were told nothing afterward?"

"Nothing."

"Garraboy, it's just possible you're not lying," said McKenna with a frown; "though I'm not sure by a long shot. However, I'll know the truth before the sun goes down."

"How?" said Garraboy, looking up.

"I neglected to tell you," said McKenna, watching him, "that I know whom the ring was pawned with, and this evening the gentleman himself will tell me who pawned it. The time I keep you depends a good deal on what he says."

"Then, this evening I will be free," said Garraboy joyfully, with such evident confidence that both young men were struck by it and McKenna, a little disturbed in his theory, continued staring at the face of Garraboy, which was illumined with a slight, malicious smile.

*CHAPTER XXII*

Half an hour later Gunther and Beecher, leaving McKenna's office with a promise to return that evening, went up town. In Beecher's pocket was a check on McKenna representing the amount of Miss Charters' account. Garraboy remained in the custody of the detective.

"Well, what do you think of it?" said Gunther.

"I think Garraboy lied," said Beecher.

"Oh, about the reason he tried to take the ring--yes, naturally. He could make a plausible reason for that--you'd hardly expect him to say in so many words that he was a thief, if he really didn't get the ring, as he says."

"I think he cooked up the lie right there," said Beecher obstinately. "I don't believe a word of it."

"I don't know--I sort of think he told the truth."

"Do you think any woman would have the nerve to go on after she had felt a hand on hers and knew that some one had a clue, not absolutely definite but almost so?"

"But, Ted, if any one denounced her, wouldn't he have to acknowledge the fact of his own motive? That would be enough to shut any one up."

"I think Garraboy lied," persisted Beecher. "I think he had a part in the theft and at least I am sure he knows all about it."

"Listen to reason," said Gunther warmly. "If Garraboy signed a confession like McKenna handed him, he wouldn't stop at returning a ring--particularly when he knows that McKenna will keep hold of him till the affair is closed up. No, no; Garraboy says he's cleared $200,000--you may be sure he's got considerably more. He's satisfied. He wants to get away from here quick. McKenna's not the only one on his track, you may be sure of that. No, it doesn't stand to reason he'd balk at a little matter like the ring."

Beecher was silent, digesting the argument.

"There may be one explanation," he said at length. "You noticed that the fellow was particularly anxious to know if Mrs. Kildair was behind us?"

"Yes, I noticed all that."

"Now McKenna thinks, and I do too, that Mrs. Kildair all along has known who took the ring and has only been held up before this from prosecuting on account of a possible scandal."

"But, that's over now--nothing can be said--it was an engagement ring, of course."

"Exactly; and that's the reason why I'm going to make this guess--that Garraboy, knowing the game was up, returned the ring this morning."

"By George!"

"And that's the reason he told the lie he did--knowing that everything will blow over in twenty-four hours."

"Ted, by the Lord Harry, I believe you've hit it!" said Gunther excitedly. "I say--"

"What?"

"Let's go up to your rooms--there may be a letter from Mrs. Kildair."

Full of eagerness they went to Beecher's rooms--only to return empty-handed and disappointed. Then they hurried to the club and searched the letter-boxes without success.

Disappointed and impatient they went in to a late lunch.

"What are you going to do about that check of Miss Charters'?" said Gunther in an aggressive tone.

"Take it round to her," said Beecher, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Mail it."

"Why?"

"Gratitude and a pretty woman are a dangerous combination," said Gunther gruffly; "especially for something soft like you."

"You damned, impertinent cuss," said Beecher acridly.

"Fact. Better let me call a messenger boy and send it around."

But in the pleased state of mind in which he was, Beecher had not the slightest intention of surrendering the delightful opportunity which the visit promised. Likewise, he was indignant at hearing from Gunther the same implications which amused him from the lips of a fascinating woman like Emma Fornez.

"You've got a fine idea of me," he answered hotly.

"I have."

"According to you, I oughtn't to be allowed to roam the streets without a keeper."

"Exactly expressed."

"Don't alarm yourself," said Beecher in a lofty, superior tone, and, believing every word, he added, "I'm quite able to take care of myself. I know how to amuse myself--and I know it is amusing myself, thank you. You think I don't know anything about women--well, I know better than some people how to keep my head straight."

"So you're going around?" said Gunther with a grin.

"I am."

"I thought you said you had never met any one who could make you so angry?"

"Come and get me at five o'clock," said Beecher, with a trifling wave of his hand.

"I begin to have my doubts," said Gunther slowly, with the air of one steeling himself against a great calamity.

Beecher had no such anticipation as he went lightly out of the club and took his way up the Avenue. For the last day he had thought much more of the possible feelings of Nan Charters toward his own receptive person than of analyzing the impregnability of his own position. He had not telephoned, desiring to effect a little surprise. But as he neared his destination he remembered that she might possibly be out.

"In that case I'll leave a little note--just a line with the check--as though it were a casual affair," he said to himself.

But Miss Charters was in. An automobile was at the curb which he thought he recognized.

Miss Charters herself answered the door, detaining him a moment in the anteroom.

"I am so glad you came," she said in a low voice, but one in which it was impossible to mistake the pleasure. "I wanted you to know that. A friend of yours is here--but he won't stay long," she added softly, with that gentle appeal in her voice against which he knew no defense. "You'll stay--I want you to."

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Mr. Lorraine." And as she saw the instant stiffening that went through him, she said quickly, with that subtle, merciless flattery of which only women have the command, "Shall I send him away--if you wish?"

"No."

The two men greeted each other boisterously, but underneath their heartiness was a sudden sense of invaded territory.

"Is he interested?" thought Lorraine, with an uneasy glance. "And why did she go out into the hall?"

"What's his right here? Was he here to lunch, I wonder?" thought Beecher, and for the first time he felt something hot surging inside of himself.

Each with an extra show of cordiality began to talk, addressing their remarks to the other. Only Lorraine, whose tenancy was thus threatened, continued to prolong his stay, anxiously watching the effect on the woman. At the end of half an hour, he no longer doubted, she was only waiting for him to go, uneasy and resentful at his delay.

He rose, heavy of heart, and shook hands with Beecher, whom he would have liked to throttle, and nodding to Miss Charters, went toward the hall, hoping that she would follow him. But women in love match the wordless surrender and tenderness they show to the man to whom they yield with an equal cruelty toward those whose misfortune is to have loved them. She did not move, waiting impatiently until she heard the tardy click of the door. Then she went to him directly, standing quite close, looking up at him like a penitent schoolgirl.

"I thought he'd never go," she said impatiently, and then with an uneasy, searching look in her eyes, she said contritely: "Do you think I am very terrible?"

He smiled and shook his head, but without profiting by the opportunity her attitude invited.

"You were engaged to Charlie once, weren't you?" he said, trying to give the question an accent of natural curiosity.

"No, never."

"Almost?"

She shook her head impatiently at the introduction of this topic.

"People said so."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"But he is in love with you," he said positively.

What she did not like was the quiet, inconsequential way he spoke, for in her own mood she did not detect the jealousy underneath.

"Please don't let us talk of Mr. Lorraine," she said quickly. "I have never been engaged to Mr. Lorraine and never could; first, because I don't intend to marry, and, second, because if I did, Mr. Lorraine could never appeal to me."

She broke off and going to the telephone said to him over her shoulder:

"You're not in a hurry?"

"No."

"Good--then we need not be interrupted."

She called the office and left word that she would not be at home. Then, rising, she came slowly back, very subdued, still alarmed at the undisturbed friendship in his look.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come to see such a little virago," she said softly.

"I came to see you on a matter of business," he said, without thinking of his words.

Her face fell.

"Oh, indeed."

He drew out his pocketbook and took out the check.

"Mr. Garraboy is leaving very suddenly for Europe," he said, turning over the bit of paper. "He has decided to wind up his affairs. He wished me to give you this check in settlement of your account," with him.

She stood quite still, her arms behind her back, but her eyes dangerously brilliant.

"If it's only on business you came," she said, breathing deep, "you can keep your check."

"But--"

"Is it only on business you go to see other women?"

He extended the check, and the jealousy Lorraine's presence had brought him made him seek to hurt her a little more.

"Don't be unreasonable," he said.

"If you don't answer," she said, stamping her foot, "I will tear it into pieces!"

A quick, impulsive joy went through him at this revealing anger.

"I came because I wanted to see you," he said with a provoking delight in his eyes. "This is of no importance."

She took the check, still looking at him, became calmer, smiled, and then with a determined bob of her head, went to place it on her writing-desk. All at once she turned quickly:

"But this is signed McKenna!"

"That's a detail."

"Your friend McKenna, the detective? Then you forced this out of him?"

"It wasn't very hard."

She let the check flutter from her fingers to the desk, thoughtfully considering it, divining slowly what it meant.

"I am unreasonable," she said quietly, returning and holding out her hand. "Thank you. Why did you bother--after the way I acted?"

"Well, just because," he answered, looking down into her eyes.

"So, Garraboy is a defaulter," she said slowly.

"I cannot tell you any more."

All at once a thought came to her and an anxious frown passed over her forehead.

"None of this is your money?" she said quickly.

"No."

"On your honor?"

"Yes."

"It is a great thing you have done for me," she said solemnly. "I am very grateful."

"Nonsense," he said lightly. "It was no trouble. I would have done it for any one."

They were near the great dormer-windows, high above the threaded smoke and gray roofs of the city, now blending into fuzzy masses with the closing of the day.

"Well, now that your business is over," she said, but with a new lightness, "I suppose you must be going?"

"What do you want me to say?" he said, smiling with a growing feeling of well-being.

"Why did you come?" she repeated maliciously, and, half-laughing, half-determined, she took the lapel of his coat in a gesture which, in her fingers, was almost a caress. She stood looking up at him, so happy, so brimming with the satisfaction of having him back, of regaining what she had feared to lose, that he could not resist the desire in her eyes.

"Because I like you," he said.

"Despite my tantrums and my moods?"

"On account of them."

"And would you have done what you did--for any one?"

"Come to think of it--no."

She was not content. She would rather that he had answered more sentimentally. She felt that he was stronger than she was, more controlled.

"Are you interested in Emma Fornez?" she said, looking away from him.

"Oh,--interested."

"You like her?"

"Yes, very much."

"I shouldn't like to have you talked about."

He did not answer.

"What have I done that displeases you, Teddy?" she said all at once.

But before he could answer, the room behind them dropped suddenly back into darkness.

"The light's gone out," she said, startled, her hand on his arm.

"The current's cut--that's all," he answered.

"I'll light a lamp."

"No. It's good here. Wait. It'll only be a moment."

They remained in the dark, turning their glances out of the window, suddenly conscious of the panorama of the evening, the stir of departing multitudes, the end of labor and the evening of rest.

"How plainly you can see," he said. "That's Brooklyn Bridge, isn't it?"

"Yes."

At the east three giant spans stood out across the unreal gray view that had neither banks nor green approaches, that cut its way like an invading flood through the cities. Innumerable, cottony puffs of steam, busy, hurrying, restless, rose from unseen hulls across the fading silhouettes of tangled spans. High to the south from a cyclopean tower a single ball of fire was shining. Below, in the long, straight avenues, the city was putting on its necklaces of brilliants; and from the black dotted masses that must be there somewhere in the growing obscurity, rushing home over the backs of the waters, high above housetops or deep through the bowels of the city, a great sigh seemed to rise with the sudden freshening of the twilight breeze, and the two human beings who looked down, as God looks down on this spectacle of a moving world, found nothing to express the sudden melancholy that troubled them, awakening vague desires, stirring them with the feeling of their own littleness.

"Come," she said, turning away the first, and, lingering, looking back, placed a hand on his arm, repeating, "Come."

He did not reply, looking beyond, deeply penetrated by all this humanity that each moment receded farther from them, isolating them, lifting them above the world into the loneliness of the skies. Her hand remained on his arm unconsciously, but this weight so soft but yet so imperious recalled him to himself. He thought no longer of what lay without. He looked at her. She was trembling. He too felt the subtle, disturbing restlessness of this dark that closed in about them, shutting out the peopled world--this mood of the day that exerts over human beings such a compelling desire.

She turned and looked at him. He could not see her face distinctly, only the eyes--that seemed incapable of seeing all but this. Then abruptly, brusquely, by the same mutual impulse, they were in each other's arms, straining to each other, their lips irresistibly closed over each other, feeling themselves more and more wrapped around by this soft darkness that had cast them up, enfolding their loneliness in the great protective instinct of human love.

The room flared up brilliantly. She recovered herself the first, drawing herself out of his arms, covering her face with fingers that still throbbed with the agony of their embrace.

They could not look at each other, bewildered by the suddenness of what had happened. She went past him hurriedly to the fireplace, sitting down. He followed irresolutely, feeling his feet unsteady beneath him, all the intellectual forces within him submerged, drunk, overthrown by the sudden, delirious awakening of his senses, suddenly aroused by this revelation of woman.

"What have we done? What was it?" she said breathlessly, without facing him. "We are crazy, Teddy,--crazy!"

He came heavily to the other end of the fireplace, leaning on the mantel, looking down at the woman who was no longer an indefinite mystery of silks and colors, but a moving, living body that had stirred in his arms.

"Teddy, we are crazy," she repeated. "What possessed us?"

"It is you who are crazy now," he said abruptly. "What is the use of arguing? Those things are beyond us. It is over--it is settled. We had nothing to do with it."

"No, no," she cried vigorously, jumping up. "It is not right. It isn't fair to you. We were swept off our feet."

"Thank Heaven, yes."

"But it's impossible, it's crazy--it's senseless. I don't want to marry, I don't want to fall in love. I want to be free--I must be free--I know that--you know that. So what then?"

"What's the use of arguing? It's been settled for us."

"But it isn't settled. I lost my head--you lost your head. We didn't know what we were doing. Marriage is impossible, absurd. I'm not a woman to marry--you would be unhappy--don't you see how ridiculous it is? I think only of myself--my career--"

"What's all that amount to--you love me and I love you. It's always been so--we've been fools and I didn't know it."

"But I don't know it," she cried; but at the same breath she knew that it was so. But this knowledge only roused in her the spirit to combat, to remit, to put away from her the threatening obstacle.

"Nonsense. Why didn't you let me go? You wouldn't; you brought me back; you couldn't help it--and I came. I would have come if you had called me. I've said all that you say myself--what good did it do me? Here I am!"

"Well, then--yes, we may love each other," she said desperately. "I don't know. I cannot reason it out--it may be so, perhaps--but even then? Teddy, it can't go on. Don't you see how wicked it would be--how wrong? Your wife can't be on the stage, and I can't give it up. It's everything--it's been my whole life. We must be strong--we must stop it. It's absurd--it's wrong."

She came to him, seized with the two contrary impulses: an instinctive revolt, a desire to force him from her life, and something just as instinctive and irresistible that drew her back to him; and at the moment she said the most firmly, "No, no, it's absurd, it's wrong," she put out her hand and caught her fingers in his coat collar, just behind his ear, under the masses of his hair.

He caught her to him, wrapping his arms around her; she continued to protest but, without resisting, her head dropped on his shoulder, her eyes closed, her lips breathlessly open.

All at once from the hall came the sound of a key in the latch. They disengaged themselves hurriedly, arranging their disordered hair, standing ridiculously apart.

From the antechamber came the voice of Miss Tilbury, the chaperon, discreetly remaining without:

"Nan, dear, Mr. Hargrave is below. He has come for his manuscript."

"But I'm not at home," she said in a muffled voice.

"You ought to send it down to him, really."

"Mr. Beecher is here--aren't you coming in?"

"In a moment."

The steps died out going to the back. Beecher, who had looked at the clock, uttered an exclamation. She came to him quickly, with the motions of the alert feline, and seizing his wrist said quickly:

"Listen, Teddy, I will not hold you to what has happened. We are out of our senses, you and I. We are crazy--crazy. You must not see me for a while--two days at least--until we know what we are doing. Go, now, please--"

Then, suddenly remembering that the same Hargrave had been the innocent cause of a little pain to him, she went quickly to the table and took up the offending play, and with that fine instinct of a woman to give even the smallest revenge to the man she loves, said:

"Take this. Give it to Hargrave yourself. Say I cannot see him."

"I shall see you tomorrow."

"No, no; but telephone tonight."

She listened a moment, her ear toward the hall like a child, and then sprang into his arms, and this time it seemed to him that it was she, not he, who dominated the embrace.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

At half-past five, Beecher, his brain in a whirl, arrived breathlessly at the office of McKenna. As luck would have it, only Gunther and the detective were there.

"My friend is a little late," said McKenna, with a quick, jerky glance at the clock.

"Where's Garraboy?"

"Twirling his thumbs in another room," said Gunther, laughing. "In a cussing bad humor, too."

For the second time, McKenna glanced nervously at the clock. Beecher was struck with the mood of restlessness that obsessed him. He passed aimlessly from desk to window and back again, apparently oblivious to their presence, immersed in some calculation that left its outward mark in a deep furrow between the eyebrows, while the cigar between his lips had gone out unperceived.

"Mr. Beecher," he said suddenly, stopping short, "I'm not sure but what I've gone off on a ridiculous tangent--it may be--it may be. Have you still got that envelope I gave you?"

"Yes, in my pocket--here," said Beecher, surprised, laying his hand on his coat.

"It was a ridiculous thing for me to do," said McKenna quickly. He made a movement of his hand as though to take it, but repressed it, saying: "All I ask is, don't open it until I ask you." Then, still ruffled, he turned away, saying to himself: "Guessing--humph! I'd fire a man for doing that."

The telephone rang with a message from the outer office and a moment later, to the amazement of both young men, Mapleson, of the firm of Sontag & Company, came in smiling and businesslike.

"How are you, McKenna?" he said affably, shaking hands. "Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?"

He was a slender, dark young man of forty-two or three, very graceful, pleasant in voice and fluent in manner, with a sure instinct for ingratiating himself where it best could serve.

"How do you do, Mr. Beecher," he said on being introduced. "I am very glad to know you, Mr. Gunther. I have the pleasure of knowing your father slightly. The country owes him a great debt for what he's done in this panic. Well, is there any mystery I can clear up for you?"

He accepted a chair, crossed his legs easily, brought out a gold cigarette-case, offered it with a wave and smiled at their declinations.

"Why, yes, Mr. Mapleson, you can give us a little information," said McKenna.

"Anything I can do for you, McKenna, glad to do it," said Mapleson.

"You may remember a ring that was sold by your firm a few months ago to Mr. John G. Slade," said McKenna directly; "a single ruby, valued, I believe, around thirty thousand dollars."

Mapleson did not avert his eyes from the glance of the detective, yet without a movement of his body an instant change came in his manner. He drew in a puff of smoke, let it out, nodded carefully and said:

"Yes, known as the Bogota ruby. I remember perfectly."

"I understand that that ring was brought back within the last ten days and pledged for a considerable amount."

"Indeed?" said Mapleson. He flung away the half smoked cigarette, and busied himself with selecting another. "Well, what do you want to know?"

"I want to know the name of the person--man or woman--who pledged it."

Mapleson changed his mind, shut the cigarette-case with a snap, clasped his hands in front of him, thumbs up and pressed against his teeth.

"Can you tell me a little more?" he said at last.

"No, I cannot," McKenna said frankly.

The eyes of the jeweler wandered from the detective and settled on the face of Beecher. The look made the young man flush. It was as though the smiling, affable confidant of feminine mysteries and intrigues was asking himself what part in all this he were playing.

"Can you tell me for whom you are acting, Mr. Beecher?" he said suddenly.

McKenna made a gesture of warning, interrupting:

"I'm sorry--we cannot."

"Have you a warrant?" continued Mapleson seriously. "In other words, is this a friendly meeting, or a legal procedure?"

"There is no warrant as yet. It is a case we particularly desire to keep out of court," said McKenna.

"It is very embarrassing," said Mapleson frankly, "very. I don't know quite how to act. Of course, McKenna, considering your relations with our firm, I should always be glad to assist you in any way--you understand that. The present case is different. The ring was not pledged with Sontag & Company, but with me personally. It is a personal matter and a very delicate one."

"I understand that," said McKenna, frowning. "And yet I must inform you that I shall probably have to proceed in the usual manner."

"Of course, if I'm brought into court on a summons," said Mapleson thoughtfully, "that is different. If I am faced by the fact that a theft has taken place, I can do nothing else but aid the law."

"But now--"

"At present? No, McKenna, I cannot give you the name of the person that pledged the ring with me. The case seems very complex to me--much more than you may believe; and as nothing is legally charged I prefer to keep my relations confidential."

"Mr. Mapleson, can you answer this?"

"What?"

"Is your refusal because you believe the intention of the person who pledged it is to restore it to its owner?"

Mapleson turned the question over a long time, whistling softly to himself. Finally he said:

"I don't know. I know nothing."

"Can you tell me the amount you advanced on the ring?"

"Yes; I think I can tell you that," he said, after a moment's thought. "I advanced twenty-eight thousand dollars."

"Twenty-eight?" said McKenna, lifting his eyebrows. "Twenty-eight on a ring worth only thirty thousand?"

"It was not a business transaction--entirely," said Mapleson stiffly.

"Then Sontag & Company knew nothing about it?"

"No."

"Was the ring pledged the day before Majendie committed suicide?"

"Yes."

"In the morning?"

"Early in the morning."

"One final question. The ring is still in your possession?"

"No."

"It is not in your possession?" said McKenna, with a sudden clearing of his forehead. "Mr. Mapleson, you are answering this because you feel bound--"

"Not at all," said Mapleson quickly. "The ring was redeemed this morning. I know nothing more about it."

The speculations which were occasioned by this disclosure were suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come!" said McKenna sharply.

An assistant entered the room with two letters. McKenna looked at the first and nodded, and then seeing the address on the second looked up quickly, saying:

"How did this come--this letter for Mr. Beecher?"

"It was sent down from his apartment, I believe, sir. Mr. Beecher's man brought it, I think."

"Very well."

McKenna dismissed him with a gesture, but instead of opening his letter thrust both of them into his pocket.

"That's all, Mr. Mapleson," he said with incisiveness. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. It's quite possible, as you perhaps believe, this case will be settled out of court."

"Let's hope so," said Mapleson non-committally. "I'm always at your service, you know. It's I who should apologize. Mr. Gunther, remember me to your father. Mr. Beecher, I hope to meet you soon again."

He shook hands warmly with Beecher, as though the young man had acquired a new value in his eyes, and went out.

The moment the door had shut, McKenna had the two letters out of his pocket.

"Two letters from the same lady," he said, tossing one to Beecher. "Both messages the same, too, I'll bet. Of course!"

He laughed and extended the letter to Gunther, who read:

DEAR MR. MCKENNA:

The ring has just been returned. Can I see you at once? Take no further measures.

RITA KILDAIR.

McKenna was a changed man. All the indecision had left him. His eyes were sparkling with pleasure and he was laughing to himself, as he took up the telephone.

"Here, give me Clancy," he cried impatiently. "Hello. What's the matter with Brady; hasn't he come back with that information yet? He has? Well, why the devil--send in the figures! Quick!"

A moment later a slip was in his hand and he was gazing at it eagerly.

"Mr. Beecher, give me half an hour's start--no, better, three quarters of an hour. Wait--have you got a car? Good. Drive me up to Mrs. Kildair's as fast as you can get me there."

"What about Garraboy?" said Gunther. "Is he to go free?"

"Not by a damn sight!" said McKenna joyfully rushing them down the hall. In the office he stopped to say hurriedly: "Clancy, stick by Garraboy--feed him--but keep him close until I telephone you!"

*CHAPTER XXIV*

McKenna was not without that penetrating imagination that has in it the quality of vision, the power to invoke the figures of the past and to follow an idea into the recesses of the future. All that he had learned and all that he had tentatively surmised of the mysterious purposes of Rita Kildair, returned to him with renewed vividness as he entered the elevator saying briefly to a question:

"I'm expected."

In his long and profound pursuit of human lawlessness, the detective had formed a crude philosophy, built on the perception of the inequalities of justice. The beginning of all crime, if he could thus have phrased it to himself, was failure. For each man that he had sent to jail for embezzlement, in the capacious corridor of his memory he knew another who ethically was the greater rogue, and, as he had said to Beecher, each day he met one such, looked into his eyes, shook his hands and took his orders. For each woman upon whom public scorn had set the brand of adventuress, he knew another woman who stood enthroned by that same society. Confusedly in his mind he had shaped a crude analysis of life. For him only two classes existed, the strong and the weak. The strong was that brutal race which could not be held down by the restraints of society, who must rise, acquire power, dominate, obeying the natural instinct within them; the weak those who aided them in their upward progress, who served them when they had arrived, and who committed crimes in their names. It was not a moral view of life so much as it was a perception of the persisting law of all animal nature.

The engagement to Slade, following so dramatically his triumphant rise from threatened disaster, had made him realize that whatever methods she had dared to employ, Mrs. Kildair was one of those whom society would never scorn for her failure. Intrigued as he was over the details of the theft of the ring, what absorbed him most was the woman. And determined at all hazards to force the defenses of her reserve, he rang the bell.

Mrs. Kildair was at the piano, the riotous movements of an Hungarian Czardas filling the apartment. She broke off suddenly, rising as McKenna entered the studio. The mood of whirling ecstasy, suddenly cut off, was still in her flushed cheeks and excited eyes, as she glided rapidly toward him.

She was in evening gown, of some flame-colored, filmy material, with sudden trembling flashes of gold bewildering to the eye, provoking to the imagination. The bodice, extreme in its daring, was not one of those stiff cuirasses, in which women encase themselves; rather the effect was of a billowy scarf that had caught and wrapped itself languidly about her. The low throat, the graceful arms, the brilliant row of pointed teeth over the full under lip, all had an extraordinary quality of vibrant, awake, impatient vitality.

In seeing her thus, McKenna comprehended at once that she had prepared herself for Slade; but so daring was the effect of the seduction which she had barbarically planned to tantalize the financier, that McKenna himself felt the effect with a little nervous, conscious dropping of his eyes. The movement did not escape her, and not disdaining the tribute she smiled to herself a quick, feline little smile.

"You, McKenna?" she said. "You are prompt."

"I came immediately."

"I was waiting for you."

They stood a few feet apart in the middle of the studio studying each other, as two fencers take their measure before joining their swords.

"You were at your office then?" she said the first.

"Yes, I came up in Mr. Beecher's car."

"Mr. Beecher was with you?"

"Yes."

"I sent him--"

"A letter, yes. He received it at my office."

"But why didn't he come up with you?"

"I asked him to give me half an hour here with you."

"That was better," she said firmly.

All the undisciplined impulses that had been stirring, gradually seemed to subside as she watched him, warily drawing about her an invisible defense.

"Here is the ring," she said suddenly, extending her arm with a gesture that was no longer languid and feminine, but forceful and controlled.

"I'd like to see it," he said.

She drew it from her finger and held it out to him. He laid it in his palm and studied it profoundly.

"What is it worth?" he asked.

"Over thirty thousand dollars."

"Ah," he said quickly. "Beecher told me you said fifteen thousand."

She looked at him from under her eyelids.

"I have just learned its value."

"Remarkable--a splendid stone. It has had quite a history," he said, handing it back to her and watching it return to her finger. "Let's hope it will stay there quietly for some time."

"You know its story?"

"From the beginning. It will interest you. I'll send it to you."

"Do."

The last replies she had given were mechanical, her whole mind focused on him, alert for any sudden turn to her advantage, seeking to penetrate the tactics he would employ.

"You kept away--on purpose," she said abruptly.

"That's so."

"Why?"

"Well, call it a matter of vanity," he said.

"In what way?"

"You excited my curiosity--you were a little too clever in our last interview."

"So you kept on with your investigations?"

"Yes."

"Successful?" she said lightly.

"Very."

"Indeed? Do you know who took the ring?"

"The first time? No."

She stopped, looked at him intently, and said:

"The second time then?"

"Yes, I know who took it the second time."

"Who?"

"You."

She laughed without confusion and, turning from him, went toward the fireplace, resting one bare arm on the mantel, the red splash of the ruby showing like a flare of anger against her cheek. She looked back at McKenna, who had not moved, saying with an admonishing shake of her head:

"McKenna, you are guessing."

"It's a good guess."

"Let me hear your theory."

"It is not a theory today."

"Indeed?"

"Yesterday it was a guess; today, I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because today I saw Mapleson," he said, watching her.

"Yes? Mapleson, of Sontag & Company? I know him very well," she replied with still no expression but amusement. "What then?"

"The ring was pawned with him, a personal matter, the morning after the theft, for the sum of twenty-eight thousand dollars. It was redeemed today."

"By whom?"

"By you, naturally," said McKenna, yet despite his absolute conviction, her composure was such that he was almost shaken in his theory.

"Mapleson never told you that."

"No; he refused to answer. It lay in my mind between you and Mrs. Cheever. The fact that he would not answer, gave me my strongest clue."

"In what way?"

"If it had been Mrs. Cheever, he would not have concealed it, because it would have been a theft. But as it was you who came to him, he refused to divulge the name, because he knew that no crime had been committed and that we had either no right to be investigating, or were doing so to be blinded by you."

"McKenna, you are guessing," said Mrs. Kildair again. "You are supposing that only Mrs. Cheever and I are on such terms with him that we could make such a personal transaction. As a matter of fact, not only Mrs. Bloodgood, but her husband and Miss Lille could have done the same thing."

"True," said McKenna, but he added obstinately: "No, the only reason Mapleson withheld the name was because no crime had been committed."

"Before we go on," she said with the same mocking smile, "would you mind telling me how you worked out this theory? Sit down. I really am interested."

If McKenna had not in his possession one bit of information which he had withheld, he would have felt the nervousness of a possible and ridiculous failure. At it was, a doubt flashed across his mind; but he allowed her to see none of this hesitation.

"I'm perfectly willing to let you know how it came about," he said, sitting down and speaking frankly. "I'm not laying claim to anything startling. I'll admit now that as to the details of how it was done, and why it was done, I don't know. I can guess; but I don't know. But as to tracing the ring and working back from that--that's A.B.C." Then, with a flash of intuition, he said abruptly: "Of course, Mapleson has just 'phoned you."

"Well, go on," she said without reply, drawn back a little, listening intently.

"The first thing I did was to locate the ring," he began. "You yourself know how easy it is to follow a stone worth thirty thousand. You know that, because the moment you found out I was on the case, you knew I would learn that Slade gave it to you. That's why you had me come here--to block it."

"That's true."

"Now, for a while, I admit I was in the dark, following several clues, and I don't mind saying here that until your engagement I was not at all sure it wasn't Mr. Slade himself who had taken that way of recovering it."

"That's strange," she said, startled. "Yes, I can see that was possible, too."

"Now, what I was working on," said McKenna, "was the strongest motive--that whoever took it up, took it because he had to take it to raise money, to pay a debt or to gamble on the market. So I investigated two ways--first, the back histories and the present standing of every one at your party; second, in the great jewelry shops, to find out if the ring had been sold or pawned."

"Of course."

"I didn't believe it had been done openly--that would have been too risky--but through some channel like Mapleson. But I wasn't thinking of Mapleson then. I couldn't locate the ring. I found out that Bloodgood, Cheever, Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille and Garraboy had all speculated heavily on the market next day. That didn't help much. Now I come to my interview with you."

Mrs. Kildair nodded and leaned forward slightly.

"That worried me. After that, I did one thing and thought another. Down at the bottom, there was something that kept me thinking about you, something that bothered me. That's where the guess-work comes in, but I don't know as I'd call it guess-work. It's an instinct you get when you come in contact with a person--it's put me on the right track many a time. I saw you didn't want anything done, but what fooled me was, I thought it was--" He hesitated, and then said boldly: "Mrs. Kildair, no use talking unless we say what we mean, is there?"

"Quite right, be professional," she said with a quick nod. "You thought I wished to conceal what my true relations were with Slade? That's it, isn't it?"

"Yes, that was it," he said slowly. "And being wrong myself, I figured out a possible motive. I was dead sure you knew who had taken the ring. Don't ask how--that's instinct--but I knew. So I figured out it was blackmail you were afraid of, and I began looking around for the lady or gentleman who would know that the ring had belonged to Slade. Do you see?"

"Yes, go on. It's very plausible."

"It looked like Garraboy, and it looked like the Cheevers at times," he said. "Then Mr. Beecher told me of seeing Mapleson in Mrs. Cheever's box at the opera, and that you said you knew him. That's what started me on Mapleson. Likewise, I began thinking more and more about that interview with you. Then came your engagement and I flung over all my theories, and got down to work. I began to look you up, and when I found out the situation from Mapleson, I made up my mind then and there, for one reason or another, you yourself took the ring the second time."

"Is that all?"

"No, this evening I got the last link I'd been waiting for."

"What's that?"

"Your account with your broker, and the record of sales," he said, bringing out a slip from his pocket.

"Do you get convictions on such evidence as this?" she said steadily.

"No," he said frankly; "but I get confessions."

"Why should I take my own ring?"

"The situation was unusual. You probably learned of Majendie's failure and you plunged on the short side."

"But why not do so openly?" she said calmly.

He hesitated.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" he said finally.

"We are not mincing words."

"You were not engaged to Mr. Slade at that moment," he began.

"How do you know?"

"I do know. The one thing in your interview with me I particularly remember was your anxiety that Mr. Slade should know nothing."

She remained thoughtful, bracing her fingers against each other, carefully considering what he had shown he knew.

"And your theory is that I took the ring the second time," she said, "when whoever first took it had thrown it on the table, that I called in detectives to make Slade believe it had been stolen, so that I could gamble in Wall Street without being suspected."

"Exactly," he said. "I have no means of knowing who took it first, but I would gamble my soul you took it the second time. For another reason: any one who took it knew he faced a search--that it was almost impossible to get it out of the room. The only person who could take it without being suspected was yourself."

"McKenna," she said at last, but without the amusement that had formerly been in her eyes, "you are still guessing."

He rose impatiently and went across the room, his hands behind his back.

"Then, Mrs. Kildair," he said, turning, "do you wish me to report what I have just told you to my client, Mr. Beecher--as a guess?"

She stood up at once, fully alert.

"Mrs. Kildair, I am not an enemy," he continued, with a sudden change of manner. "I may not know all--but I know too much. Now, I'll tell you right out why I want your confidence. You marry John G. Slade. Slade is going to be one of the biggest figures in the country; I know that. I've had his business; I want to keep it. It's going to be ten times what it was before. More, I want his backing. I want several big jobs other agencies have got--The Bankers' Association, for one. Now, from what I've seen of you, the force back of Slade will be Mrs. Slade. Tell me yourself what I already know and I know I've got you as a friend. Keep it from me, and I know you'll supplant me with your husband. There may come a time when I can serve you--you never can tell. It's worth trying. I repeat I know too much. The only way to guard against it is by full confidence."

"You are right. I will tell you," she said suddenly, and she added seriously, "I was prepared to tell you. But it is understood this remains our secret."

"My word."

"And that Mr. Beecher is not to have the slightest clue. Can you promise me that?"

"I have another story ready."

"Good. Then it is an alliance," she said, and she offered her hand abruptly, with a movement full of authority.

McKenna shook hands, surprised at the masculine directness of her grip, surprised too at the utter disappearance from her face and attitude of all the impulsive fire and fascination that had first struck him.

"You are right, and you are wrong," she said directly. "I took the ring, but in an entirely different way from what you believe. I did not take it at the table, as you think--do you know where I found it?"

"Where?"

"In the pocket of Mr. Beecher's overcoat."

*CHAPTER XXV*

McKenna was so startled at this announcement that the expression on his face brought a smile to the face of the woman.

"Let me begin at the beginning," she said.

While he seated himself, she continued moving about, her head down, her lip closed over her under lip, carefully considering the situation. She had no fear to give her confidence. She understood the man with whom she was dealing, the more so for his open avowal of his reasons for seeking her friendship. Also she was fully alive as to the strength of such an alliance. What she considered was how much she should reveal. To-morrow she would be Mrs. John G. Slade, at the goal of her ambitions, over what perilous paths only she herself knew. The knowledge of what she had won suffocated her, for the nature of dramatic and adventurous spirits is such that they must seek relief in confidence. More, they crave the admiration that only another can bring to complete their moments of self-intoxication. At this moment, when her role had been played, she craved applause. McKenna was not a friend--he was a machine, a rock that would give back an echo. Beside, what had he not divined?

"McKenna," she began quietly, though weighing her words, "to any one else I might tell my story differently. With you it is otherwise. You are no fool. I shall speak openly. On the night of my party I was virtually ruined."

"Ruined!" exclaimed McKenna, with an involuntary glance at the luxury which surrounded them.

"When I say ruined, I mean for me," she said, nodding. She became thoughtful, looking beyond him, seeing a distant self. "When I came here I had fifteen thousand a year. I was not satisfied. I wanted forty. I gambled. I have always gambled. I lost heavily. That night I had only five thousand a year left. That was ruin for me. I speculated on the tips of a man who deliberately and for a purpose misinformed me. Can you guess who that man was?"

"Slade," said McKenna instantly.

"Yes, Slade," she said. "It has been a desperate struggle between us. Tomorrow I shall become his wife. That is what I want more than I have ever wanted anything else. It is my right--you will see what I will do. Understand me, if Slade had failed I should not have married him, and yet I tell you frankly he is the only man I have known that appeals to me in every way. However," she added, with a little abrupt movement of her closed hand, "that's over. I have won."

"Did he know that you had lost?" asked McKenna slowly.

"No," she said with a smile, "he never knew. Not that he would not have made it up--in his way. It is a game he must have played many times." She went to a writing-desk and, unlocking a drawer, brought out a note. "When I told you he gave me this ring with an offer of marriage," she said, returning, "that was not true. He had no thought of marriage then--far from it. He offered me the ring and I refused it, knowing that he did so only to try my weakness. Also, he wanted to find out what I knew of Majendie and the Atlantic Trust. When he left he sent it back with this note. Read it."

McKenna took the sheet, smoothing out the wrinkles, and held it up.

DEAR LADY:

Apologies for my rudeness. If you won't accept a gift, at least wear the ring for a week. I should like to know what effect it could have on your cold little soul. Oblige my curiosity. It's only a little reparation for the disappointment I gave you.

J.G.S.